


Dortmund vs Wolfsburg: 2-1

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Christoph Metzelder und Sebastian Kehl verließen die Umkleidekabine Arm in Arm</i> - Christoph Metzelder and Sebastian Kehl left the locker room with their arms around each other (from <a href="http://borussia-dortmund.lycos.de/?%9F%2Ak%97%84%EC_m%E6%80%9E">here</a>, about the successful game against Wolfsburg) - this line kicked it off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dortmund vs Wolfsburg: 2-1

**Author's Note:**

> Published first on LiveJournal on January 25th, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> Again, I owe everything that I am to cerulean_eyes for her wonderful encouragement, her absolutely magnificient beta and for just being there for me - so I'm dedicating this fic to her (which is only appropriate, seeing as she wanted to marry one of the paragraphs)! *smiles*

Towelling his wet hair, Metze still feels as if he has to pinch his arm to reassure himself that it really did happen. They did win. Against Wolfsburg. And they were good. Really good. Sure, he has had some problems in the beginning, especially with letting Petrov through, but luckily that didn't amount to anything. The air in the locker room is practically vibrating with an boisterous energy, everyone's as wired as he is, even after such a strenuous match.

Something heavy hits his thigh, soaking his boxers instantly, and he turns around with an indignant "Hey!" at facing Basti, grinning and holding a dripping wet towel in his hands. He smirks, advancing on Basti, rolling in his own towel to make it a manageable shape. Amongst good-natured hooting from the rest of their teammates, who are ducking out of their way or contributing their bit to it by holding onto one of them so the other one has free reign, they deliver a full-blown towel fight with lots of laughter and teasing which ends with both of them out of breath, holding onto the racks of the benches and what little clothing they wear is now glued to their skin, soaking wet. By now most of the other players have filed out of the locker room, chatting amongst themselves, some smiling indulgently at the spectacle they provided them with.

Basti plops down on the bench, sprawling, and Metze's look is being drawn to the tight black briefs that outline his best friend's package, even more so now that they're dripping wet, and just thinking about it alone makes him shudder slightly, a tinglinghot sensation rising up his spine quickly, and he has to avert his eyes to not draw any attention to himself, as they're not alone yet – there's still Florian stuffing his dirty trikot and shorts into the hamper and Dede zipping up his jacket.

Basti looks up at him, half-smirking. "Up for another round?" Metze just laughs, swatting his towel half-heartedly at Basti's head. Letting himself slide down the wall to the floor, he leans his head back. "I'm that k.o. I wouldn't even notice if someone shot me," he says.

"Bang bang," Basti says, jabbing his index finger at him.

"Your jokes get worse by the minute, you know that?", he retorts, but can't help himself chuckling.

"Come on. Let's change, we have to get out of here before any of the reporter teams waiting outside start suspecting something", Basti grins, getting up and extending a hand to him.

"They already know that we've set up house together with a king-size bed, are married thrice over, have ten adopted Chinese kids and still can't keep our hands off each other. What else is new?" Grasping Basti's hand, he suddenly exerts what little is left over of his strength and jerks Basti forward and onto him and they end up in a sprawl of limbs and spluttering, mainly from Basti. Metze just laughs, despite one of Basti's bony elbows digging into his side, busy dislocating his kidney. He feels as if he could take on anything, as if he's king of the world. King of the world, indeed, with a very heavywarmwet friend - who occasionally is a lover, too, when circumstances allow it - lounging on him, making himself heavier by the minute.

Unfortunately, it is noticed by other, more welcoming parts of him, too. Which isn't really appropriate in the Borussia locker room, of all places, so he quickly wriggles out from underneath Basti before the situation's potential for embarrassment can reach its height. Grinning weakly at Dede – did he suspect something? No, he's just waving, heading out of the door after Florian –, he manages to finally un-tangle himself and gets up, snatching their towels from the bench and balling them up for a shot into the hamper, which is already overflowing with trikots and shorts and towels.

"Three points!" he croons. Basti is already at his locker, digging through his bag in search for dry boxers and clothes. "Congratulations. Will you take up Dirk Nowitzki's offer, then?", comes from him, dryly.

"Only if you'll be there with me," he says, batting his eyes at Basti, who now chuckles. "I'll be cheerleading for you." – "Now that's something I'd love to see…"

Amongst their easy banter, they manage to change into dry clothes quickly and head out of the now empty locker room. Metze puts his arm around Basti's shoulders, grinning, feeling absolutely at ease with himself and the world. Outside, the reporters' cameras are flashing, questions are thrown at them, yells to look here or there, and it's perfect.

After wading through the mob, answering always the same questions for various TV teams and newspapers and smiling in whatever direction a camera is flashing, they finally find themselves outside the arena, breathing in the sharp wintry air and quickly heading towards the warmth the team bus is promising. Metze claims two empty seats at the rear for them and waits for Basti, who is snatching some blankets and pillows from the first row of benches for them. Most of the other team mates are chatting quietly, still somewhat high on winning the game, but some, Ricken and Koller amongst them, are already snoring, exhausted and tired after the game.

Metze wouldn't mind joining them in Morpheus' arms and shuffles around to make himself comfortable, wrapping the thick blanket around his body and propping up the pillow against the window to lean his head against it. He feels the warmth of Basti at his side, his head on his shoulder – and what is that? Something wriggling under his blanket, searching for something. Metze slowly extends his hand to meet the something which he rightly suspects is Basti's and their fingers mesh, like they have done thousands and thousands of times, or so it seems to him, hidden under the thick blankets. It's dark in the rear and there's only them and Koller in the seat in front of them, snoring loudly, and the Scandinavians, Jensen and Bergdölmo - "Skitprat!", a deep chuckle - chatting with each other across from them, so they're safe. For the moment. He smiles, revelling in the warm comfort and closes his eyes, squeezing Basti's hand ever so slightly.

Too quickly, they're arriving at the parking lot in Dortmund. The hard light is blinding Metze's eyes and he blinks, sleepily, before he recognizes the surrounds. His teammates are already filing out of the bus, stretching after the three-hour drive. Quickly disentangling himself from Basti under the blankets – thank God they didn't slip down –, he nudges his best friend awake, smiling at the slight drool evidence on Basti's cheek. "Whuh?"

"We're there, let's get out of here and in a real bed, 'kay?", he says.

"Okay." Recovering quickly, Basti throws back the blankets and they squeeze out of the narrow aisle, shuddering slightly when the coldness hits them. Metze's car is in the far corner of the parking lot and after saying their good-byes to their teammates and Marwijk, promising to be there Monday early for training, they head off in this direction.

"My place or yours?", Basti says, leering playfully at Metze, who just snorts. "Mine, because your bed is way too small – as you very well know from last time", he reminds Basti. Chuckling, the latter nods. "It was priceless, though, seeing your face…", he muses. "Another joke like that, and you're sleeping in the hall. Or better, outside the flat," Metze threatens.

They get into the car and Metze heads out of the lot and manages his car through the late night Saturday traffic towards his flat, letting Basti's easy chatter float over him, retorting when the occasion calls for it. Soon the car is parked just across the street where his flat is and they race each other for the door, Basti yelling "I'm first!" and him laughing, leaning against the door, looking down in Basti's glowing face, taking in everything, the way the light of the street lamps is reflected in his hair, how large his pupils are, almost swallowing up the thin rim of light blue, the slight wetness of his lips, and how close he is to him, how he can feel the warmth emanating from Basti's body, and now their lips touch, and it develops into a passionate game of searching and finding release, quicksavage dips into the wet warmth that is Basti's beautiful mouth, fuelled by their renewed exhilaration after the won game, searinghungry touches of hands on warm flesh, and he yelps when his naked back hits the ice cold door knob.

_What are you doing?_, a part of Metze's brain that he has suppressed more or less successfully screams, horrified, _what if some people – some reporters come by and see you like that, what then_ – and he disentangles himself from Basti, quickly, almost shoving him back, seeing the confusedwanting hurt in Basti's eyes, smiles apologetically, jerking his head at their surroundings. Basti steps back, exhaling heavily, and nods.

But there's still the desire, hotheavy_wanting_ in his eyes and Metze swallows. He knows that it is mirrored in his eyes, and that they can't hold back themselves any longer.

He quickly digs around in his pockets for the key and upon finding it, opens the door and they tumble into the dark hallway. His flat is on the third floor and after making exaggerated shushing motions, as always, because of the older couple Ruczynski with the extremely light sleep on the first floor, they tiptoe up the stairs.

Finally, they're inside, and he locks the door, hearing the rustle of Basti taking off his jacket behind him. Slight steps, and he hasn't turned around yet when warmth suddenly envelopes him, Basti burrowing in between his shoulder blades. Metze can feel his best friend's hardness against him and he shuddersighs, knowing what is about to unfold between them.

Fumbling with Metze's belt, Basti presses into him, wetwarm tongue licking his neck, biting the juncture of neck and shoulder and Metze groans, halfturning around and catching his mouth for a quicksloppy kiss, hands batting away Basti's to aid in getting rid of his jeans, and then it evolves into a graspingjerkingshuffling game of who can get the most clothes off, interspersed with clutches and strokes and open-mouthed hungrybiting kisses, then they stumble toward his bed, which is still half-made from this morning, and the frame hits him in the hollow of his knees and they fall backwards and he 'oomph!'s at Basti's weight on him. A short moment of quietness, looking at each other, breathing heavily.

Basti's eyes are half-lidded, sparks of pent-up desire visible in them, his tongue slowly, probably unconsciously, wetting the rim of his upper swollen lip, slightly shifting so their erections are aligned to each other, and this is the moment where Metze completely loses it. Groaning out loud, he clutches at Basti's arse cheeks, probably leaving bruises, but he doesn't really care at this moment, driving himself upwards into him, into that slick hollow between the hipbone and the groin. Hearing Basti's moans getting louder, he looks up into his best friend's face and seeing the sweat-sheened face, glistening in the weak moonlight, the eyes scrunched up, the errant strand plastered to his forehead and feeling the shudders racing through his best friend's body – he reaches up, forcing his head down, carding through the sweaty strands, blindingly searching for his mouth, this ohsodelectablewicked mouth, but he never quiets down enough in their battle for control to lock onto each other properly, so it's just catchingmissinglickingbitingdown, and it will never be enough and then he suddenly is on top, grinding down onto Basti, quickhardslick, seeking desperately the final release, his lower lip caught between his teeth, hissing. He's so close and –

Suddenly Basti's straining against him, pushing against his thrusts, and he is irritated at first, at Basti for disrupting his flow, but then he hears the urgentdesperate whisper of "Where is it? Damn, I need you in me!" and quickly sends a thank you to God for their one-track minds because the oil bottle from their last time is still in the upper drawer of his nightside table and he quickly delves into it, finding the familiar shape and quickly squirts some into his hand, reaching down underneath himself and nudging against Basti's thighs, sliding upwards, sensing Basti wriggling and opening his thighs more to give him room, feeling the small puckered opening – a slight hiss from Basti, fingers clutching at his shoulders, a jerk upwards, he mutters something soft, anything, while he softly strokes it, letting the oil get into every fold.

Already he is shivering hard from desire, his dick throbbing and, wanting to distract himself, he fastens his lips onto Basti's mouth, delving deep into the warm wetness, stroking his tongue firmly, and at the same time slips his middle finger into him which causes the warmslicksweaty body under him convulsing which sends answering shuddering ripples through his own body and Metze moans into his mouth and it's like going mad, almost, a very good kind of madness, the best there is, delirioushotdizzy, when he feels Basti contracting around his finger, bearing down onto it, clutching at his back, nails digging into his flesh, searching for a hold.

The second finger follows, slipping in easily, "Put it in, now, goddamnit you," and he knows that Basti's just as close to the verge of coming as he is and he knows that they won't last long, and slipping out his fingers, he positions himself at the entrance and, with a quick thrust, is inside Basti – and it's indescribable, really, hotvelvetsofttight, and Basti's eyes are closed, a slight hiss – either from pleasure or pain, Metze doesn't know, escapes his lips, and he bows down, closing his lips over his mouth, slowly, and he feels fingers carding through his hair, Basti's legs tangling with his own, and then it gets toomuchtoo… and he can't hold still anymore, he has to move, and move he does, thrustslidethrustslidethrust and Basti mirrors his every move, the wetslick slapping of their bodies sounds loud to Metze's ears, but that's probably because their moans are drowned in their feverish kisses, and he twists his fist in the sheets, his other hand slipping down to grasp Basti's arse, providing leverage to his thrusts.

Blindinghotrush of desire, and he's jerking, releasing his seed into Basti, and feeling warmwet spurts on their stomachs in return, their cries halfmuffled, and it's bliss. Spreading through his body, tingling in his fingers and toes and he just now notices that the left sock didn't come off through their intercourse and chuckles. Pulls himself out of Basti slowly, now soft cock popping out. Feeling a slight shudder, he strokes whatever he can reach of his best friend's body, shifting to the side slightly to have better access. "You okay?"

He hears Basti chuckling, the loosened embrace tightening slightly. "One more stupid question like that and I'm going to kick you off the bed, Christoph." The exhaustion is audible, but so is the post-orgasmic bliss. He grins, leaning over Basti to search for something to wipe off the come – ah, his old, rather faded Borussia t-shirt that he's taken to wear on cold nights in bed, not that he needs it now, with the furnace that is Basti – and cleans them up quickly, throwing it into the far edge of the room and snuggling up to his best friend again. Sensing the exhaustion – game- and sex-induced – claiming them now, he pulls out the bedspread from behind him, having to shift a bit to dislodge it properly which elicts a sleepy grunt from Basti, whose arms are still around him, not letting him go, and throws it over both of them.

"Good night, then." – "Night, and don't hog the blanket." – "I don't-" – "Yes, you do, and now let's get to sleep", and Basti places a little kiss on his nose. Metze just smiles and burrows deeper into his embrace.

~ ende ~


End file.
